


A Splintered Light

by windchijmes



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship/Love, M/M, Rimming, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:43:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windchijmes/pseuds/windchijmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erebor is prosperous and a stripling Dwalin roams its streets in carefree abandon. By chance, he encounters a fiery Dwarfling, and they tussle over a dagger. Decades later, Dwalin enters the halls of Erebor as a young warrior, and Thrain asks him to personally train his son - who is none other than that Dwarfling of long ago, now all grown up as the arrogant, beautiful prince Thorin. Intrigued with each other, what starts as simply comradeship, flourishes into something more.</p><p>Thus begins the tumultuous love between warrior and prince. Until Smaug lays Erebor to waste.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic sort of chronicles how a Dwalin-Thorin relationship may have blossomed back when they were young, and how it then endured through the Sack of Erebor. I shall apologise in advance for any discrepancies in the plot/canon; I may not be accurate at some points. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy the fic!

When Dwalin was told to meet and befriend the Young Prince of Erebor, he said no.

Actually, he scoffed and told his dear brother Balin he’d rather frolic with Wargs. That earned him a good smack upside his head from Balin’s hand, but it also made him more stubborn about it. He had started training earnestly already and there was less and less time for anything else. He would not waste any of his precious summer on a little royal brat, even if they were supposedly distantly-related, and et cetera, et cetera.

But he said yes later, grudgingly, because that was the best, and sometimes the _only_ way to get Balin off his back. Then when it was time to go out and bow and greet the Young Prince and his entourage, Dwalin had already long disappeared into the tangled streets and alleys of outer Erebor. He was twenty-five and the world was vast before his eyes; he could do whatever he wanted.

Dwalin had just slipped into the Festive Market, a bazaar of noise and colour and crammed with peddlers' wares for every whim and fancy you could conjure up. That was when he saw _that dagger_ hung up on a measly string in Old Dror’s Shop of Sharps. Even with his unschooled, stripling eyes, he could see the worth of it. The make of the blade was fine, the hilt inlaid with exquisite engravings beneath the grime.

He had to have it.

So, he clambered up to the old Dwarf, intent on bargaining for that dagger. And he was just raising one arm to point to it, when _someone else’s_ hand beat him to it.

“I want that!”

“That one!”

He found himself glaring at the other – _Dwarfling_. There was a difference between them, mind. He was a stripling himself. The other was definitely a little Dwarf – a small boy. And that was not all. Dwalin figured he was at least _two_ inches taller, and at least _one-and-a-half_ times bigger than his challenger.

“I laid claim to it first,” the Dwarfling said in a very high voice. He looked like the way his voice sounded – babyish.

Dwalin just laughed as he rounded upon his enemy. “And you think you’re good enough to wield it?”

“How dare you!”

They snarled at each other. Now, as they were circling each other, he could see that the Dwarfling had black hair, like him. But that was where their similarities ended. The Dwarfling had a very girlish face – thickly-lashed eyes, long nose, tiny mouth, and very unbecoming dark _fluff_ at his cheeks. And he had dainty little braids too, how dreadful.

Dwalin’s own face already had something closer to a beard, a sort of bristly scruff. Muscles were cording around his shoulders and chest. Even just a stripling, his demeanor was swarthy and he would grow up big and fierce-looking. Balin always said he looked so much like their father.

“You’re a wee creature,” Dwalin said disdainfully, but half-seriously. He was not scared of scrapes and he’d fought off his share of much-older and much-bigger arses who had dared provoke him. But he had never fought anyone younger and smaller than himself. There was something very wrong about that, and as much as he wanted the dagger, if he could just _talk_ his way into getting it, he would.

“Go, before I hurt you,” Dwalin finished graciously. Well, it _sounded_ gracious to his own ears.

“Not if _I_ hurt you first,” the Dwarfling shrieked, standing his ground.

Dwalin’s temper rose like a storm.

They leapt up and reached each other at about the same time. Dwalin caught the Dwarfling’s arms in his own, and suddenly, they were wrestling across the grounds in the market square. It might sound a little trifling now, but Dwalin found himself surprised by the Dwarfling. Although slight in stature, he had startling strength and he was clearly well-trained as he twisted quickly out of Dwalin’s hold, and attacked Dwalin every opportunity he got, actually managing to snag one hand into Dwalin’s wild-flying locks. The stripling hollered and lashed out, catching the Dwarfling across his cheek.

Neither would give, nor would they surrender, and they thrashed like two wild pups before the gathering crowds of amused, bewildered onlookers. In a sudden moment of respite, their tangled limbs separated and distance opened up between them. They readied their stances and squared their shoulders. Dwalin was fuming now, his anger further goaded by the retaliating hiss from the Dwarfling.

Oh, _by Mahal’s beard_ , he was going to pummel the snot out of that Dwarfling’s nose!

Yelling, they lowered their heads and charged.

At least, that was Dwalin’s plan. What happened was that his collar was suddenly seized in an iron grip and he found himself held back by a strong arm, and glared upon by a very disapproving gaze.

There was a sharp cry from the other end, and Dwalin took savage delight in seeing the Dwarfling similarly restrained at the shirt by a large, towering, and vaguely-familiar figure. Now they _both_ couldn’t attack.

“You little rascal,” Balin growled at him, his voice hard, with none of its usual patient tones. “You dare fight _that_ boy! If you’ve hurt him, even I wouldn’t be able to save you from the dungeons.”

“I’ll fight whoever I want,” Dwalin retorted fiercely, refusing to back down, never mind that he was still dangling embarrassingly from his brother’s grasp. He kicked, trying to free himself.

But Balin would have none of it. Instead, he marched towards the other pair, towing Dwalin along like a sack of struggling potatoes. Balin bowed deeply to the other Dwarf, and said most apologetically, “I beg your forgiveness, my lord. My imbecile of a brother knows not what he is doing.”

Lord? Dwalin blinked, despite his injured sense of justice, and studied the big Dwarf’s crimson robes, magnificent hair, and the runic tattoos upon that great forehead. _Oh_. That. Well. That would be Thrain, their _Crown Prince_ , and heir to the throne. Which meant that the Dwarfling wriggling in Thrain’s steely grip was –

Well. Bollocks.

“I scarcely think my son _here_ knows what he is doing either,” Thrain said in a deep, bellowing voice, his fearsome gaze lancing down at the boy he was holding. “Getting into fights in public is not part of his education. And neither is sneaking away behind his father’s back.”

At his father’s displeased tone, the wee Dwarf stopped moving then, and hung sulkily from Thrain’s hand, his eyes glowering in his young face.

“Your brother, you say, Balin?” Thrain continued, looking up with interest at Dwalin. “What of your name, son?”

It was rather intimidating, having that steely gaze riveted upon him, but Dwalin was not one to tremble in the face of fear. “Dwalin, son of Fundin,” he replied without hesitation, pride searing his voice. “My lord,” he added, remembering etiquette, though a little belatedly.

Thrain’s beard twitched a little, and his expression was not quite decipherable. He looked austere, yet he seemed amused, but his bearing spoke of regal authority and even Dwalin felt that he really must behave like a proper stripling before the Crown Prince. At least, he would behave _better_ than the mad little boy prince.

“Dwalin,” Thrain nodded slowly, as if committing his name to memory and for future remembrance. “You would serve us well, as your brother has done. But before that, you would tell me now what your quarrel is with Thorin here.”

Ah, so the little brat was called Thorin. Now Dwalin recalled that he’d been told the name before, but he’d clean forgotten it. Taking a deep breath, and one moment to collect himself, Dwalin plunged ahead. “We saw the same dagger, and we both wanted it.”

“I claimed it first,” Thorin interrupted indignantly, hands clenched into small fists by his sides. There was a bruise forming on his cheek from their earlier tussling, and his braids were all over his head. He looked a right mess.

Dwalin stared at him. Now that he was calmer, he was noticing other things about the Dwarfling. Thorin was still a puny thing with a too-sharp tongue, but he was also a _child_ , and he barely looked over fifteen years of age. Dwalin – well – really shouldn’t have fought him. Balin might be right about his nasty temper, not that he’d ever admit it.

Awkwardly and very reluctantly, Dwalin acknowledged what the Dwarfling said. “He’s right,” he told Thrain. “He did claim it first.”

The Dwarfling’s eyes widened in surprise at that admission of defeat from Dwalin. Balin made a grunt that sounded like he was chortling and trying not to show it. Thrain just stared at Dwalin with a definite twinkle in his dark gaze, understanding the stripling’s efforts at giving into the little prince’s childish demands.

“So it is mine?” Thorin said then, lifting his chin and looking right at Dwalin.

“Yes,” Dwalin growled, dangerously close to sulking himself. He might have lost this round because he couldn’t bring himself to challenge Thorin over something trivial, but somehow, that did _not_ ease his urge to pound the little brat on his stupid head. “Yours.”

Abruptly, the Dwarfling’s scowl disappeared and he grinned up triumphantly at his father, who then _distinctly_ rolled his eyes towards Balin in a most long-suffering manner. The two older Dwarves shared a mutually-sympathetic, wry look. Not long after, the little prince claimed his dagger and the royal clan made to leave, heading towards their waiting carriage.

Dwalin sighed crossly to himself as he watched their departure. He did not get that beautiful dagger, he fought with a little prince – _his_ prince, bollocks – and later, he was likely to be whipped by his brother once they reached home. And then, he would probably be lectured for _weeks_ after.

To top it off, just before that ridiculous Dwarfling got into his carriage, he turned his head and made a face at Dwalin. The insufferable little worm.

Dwalin just glared up at the sky. He did not want to have _anything_ to do with princes ever again in his life, if Mahal would help him.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

He thought about that dagger often, and sometimes, that Dwarfling. But time passed, and those images became buried under memories and experiences that came after.

Soon after that first meeting with that Dwarfling, Dwalin was sent to the guards’ camp as an apprentice. Balin thought it would be the best and least complicated way of ensuring he stayed out of trouble, and Dwalin just wanted to avoid his brother’s endless preaching. So they both decided upon that route of action, for once in complete agreement.

And there at the camp, Dwalin stayed for years, enduring the gruelling training and arduous tasks. An apprentice anywhere had to be moulded through fire, as the elders liked to say. In time, his prowess surpassed even that of his teachers, and he was sent on missions that took him even further away from the halls of Erebor and plunged him into the dangers of the lands beyond the borders. It was a hard life, and Dwalin thrived on it. Soft pillows and gentle days were not for him. A life was not one, if he didn’t have to _work_ for it.

Stories and news from the kingdom reached the soldiers’ ears now and then. Dwalin had heard about the growing wealth of their people, and how envoys from other lands came to offer trade, or just to gaze upon their _Arkenstone_ , Heart of the Mountain. There were other tales too, of the King growing old, and the Crown Prince poised for the throne, while the young Prince Thorin grew ever promising as a future heir to the throne.

That name – _Thorin_. It brought with distant recollections of a proud little lad swinging a dagger that really should have been Dwalin’s. Ah, the _dagger_. Dwalin wondered if he’d ever see it again.

But those were idle thoughts. Vague, formless ponderings that surfaced in Dwalin’s mind during moments of rest. Then, he would shove them aside as another command reached his ears, or an assignment was entrusted to him.

In this way, the days passed in a meandering stretch of sweat-drenched, oft bloodied encounters. But there were also languid moments of gold-drenched grasses and pale winterfall. And roaring, glorious occasions of feasts held in honour of his feats in battle, and a song or two sung in his glory.

Then, of course, just as Dwalin was getting used to his life as such, there came a sharp turn in his life. A most unusual bend that Dwalin did not see coming.

The guards were summoned back to the kingdom, and Dwalin was expected to be amongst them. This was a message relayed by the Crown Prince Thrain himself.

“Perhaps you’ll be matron to the little heirs,” Falgur, one of his shield-brothers had laughed, elbowing him _un_ -gently in the ribs. “Keep them warm in their beds.”

Dwalin was not amused. He had long told himself these royal heirs were nothing but trouble and he stuck by his beliefs. He then showed his fist to Falgur, in a silent warning that they would be intimately introduced if Falgur didn’t shut his gob.

But now, standing in the Great Hall of Erebor, he thought glumly that Falgur might be right, and he was not enjoying this one bit. His long period of absence away from the kingdom was very much making itself felt. Everything, down to the most innocuous pillar, was too orderly, too grand, too crammed with officials and courtiers in too-long robes. His brother Balin would be amongst them, but then, Balin always had a bit of poncy in him even if he could fight better than all these pompous arses put together.

The greeting ceremony for the guards was too elaborate, and crammed with too much talking. The accolades piled up dizzyingly high, many of them made to sound more lyrical than the grim reality of the deeds themselves. Dwalin slayed enemies so they couldn’t kill him _first_. That was all.

“Dwalin.” Like an echo from the past, Thrain stood before him, a pleased light in his stern gaze. He was still imposing, but he was no longer as large and fearsome as that memory from Dwalin’s mind. One of his eyes was scarred now, and there was grey in his hair, though they took nothing away from his noble bearing. 

He stood to attention, then bowed to his Crown Prince. “Your Grace,” he greeted.

“You remember my son?” Thrain continued evenly, but there was a chuckle in his voice that Dwalin was _sure_ he did not imagine. “Thorin.”

Dwalin took his time, before he bowed again, this time to the Young Prince of Erebor. Then, he straightened himself to his full height and beheld the lad who now stepped out from behind his father. There was brusqueness to Thorin’s movements, that suggested a measure of indignation, and he strode up to Dwalin without a moment’s hesitation.

Well. Mahal had a sense of humour, would you look at _that_.

Dwalin silently marvelled at the changes the passage of time had wrought in the prince. A blurred memory of a gangly, defiant Dwarfling now paled in the vibrant hue of its flesh counterpart. Tall for a Dwarf yet still a couple of inches shy of Dwalin’s towering height, the young prince was crowned with wild dark hair, and blessed with features that were a whisper too delicate, but somehow fitted him just right. The expression upon his face was a polite sneer, while his eyes blazed with spirit and probably a temper that could rival Dwalin’s own.

Thorin, son of Thrain, was a proud, headstrong young prince. And he was _beautiful_ , ferociously so, in a way that seemed to complement his strength. He was clearly irked at being made to wait, yet there was undeniable curiosity in his gaze as he scrutinised Dwalin. He seemed to be committing every whit of Dwalin, be it face or expression or temperament, to memory.

All these qualities in the prince juxtaposed so starkly against one another, that Dwalin found himself fascinated, unable to look away.

“It would be my honour, Dwalin, son of Fundin,” Thrain put forth his request. “If you would train my son. He would gain much from your wealth of experience, the same way he had been tutored so ably by your brother Balin.”

Dwalin seriously, solemnly, grimly considered saying no. He had no wish to spend time coddling a brat prince, even if he had a pretty face. Well, a _very_ pretty face. But the _main issue_ was he had better things to do with his life, such as guarding the borders from enemies and keeping his kingdom safe.

“Do you want to refuse?” Thorin spoke up with a curl to his lip. He had a prince’s voice. Deep, smooth and commanding. But the undercurrent of brash annoyance in it reached Dwalin’s ears in crystal clarity. And so did that almost imperceptible flare of _hope_.

Ah, so the young prince did _not_ want Dwalin to train him. He must think himself better than Dwalin and was angered that he had to defer to the likes of a rough soldier. For a brief moment, it was though they were suddenly children again, bristling over a dagger and locking horns.

“I would gladly train Prince Thorin, Your Grace,” Dwalin said to Thrain, taking some measure of gratification in the scowl that instantly darkened Thorin’s face.

“Very well,” Thrain nodded, his lined, severe visage breaking into a rare smile.

Beside his father, Thorin lowered his head in acquiescence, but _oh_ , his eyes were burning flints in his face.

“I would see you at the meadow at sunrise, Sir,” Dwalin said in a most pleasant manner. “Do not be late.”

++++++++++

_Do not be late._ That was what that impudent soldier had said.

So even before the break of dawn, Thorin had arrived at their designated training ground and ordered his personal guards to stay a distance away. The ground was really just a small clearing in the midst of the woods. The trees were sparse, affording many lines of sight, and Thorin understood the reasoning behind this destination. Training a prince also meant guarding his safety.

Standing at the edge of the clearing, Thorin tried to clear his mind of all irrelevant thoughts. And failed. He shook his head tersely. He was no raw apprentice to training. He had been tutored and guided by teachers all his life, and in all arts of combat and politics. Yet father had deemed his skills unworthy.

He closed his eyes again and forced that thought away. That was not true. Thrain had neither belittled his achievements, nor made him feel any less than his worth as a true Heir of Durin. But it was also Thrain who appointed that soldier to train him. Why?

He knew of Dwalin – for that was his name, was it not – and his prowess in combat. He’d heard the stories, and he had paid attention, despite his grudging irritation. Dwalin, son of Fundin, killed his first Orc at the age of forty-three, not even a fully-adult Dwarf. Thereafter, he ascended the ranks quickly, proving himself both an able soldier, and a promising leader of men. Based on those merits, it was logical that he would be chosen to be personal trainer to Thorin.

But Dwalin was also full of himself, and an arrogant bastard to boot. He had an intense, piercing gaze beneath his brows that seemed to penetrate all he looked upon, and there was a perpetual smirk on his lips. _And_ he was tall, and broad, with rippling muscles everywhere – not that these were of any importance. Now why would he think about such trivial details?

Thorin frowned, unhappy at the way his thoughts were not making any sense now. He reached towards his waist and unsheathed his personal dagger. Now, if he had not fought that rogue stripling over this dagger, would it have mattered so much to him? Sighing inwardly and not getting answers to his questions, Thorin sheathed it again.

_And felt the intruder’s presence._

He whipped around, heart pounding, and glared at the figure leaning nonchalantly against one of the trees. For a Dwarf as large as Dwalin, the soldier had not made a single sound in his approach. Had he been an _enemy_ –

Not giving him time to ruminate over his error, Dwalin simply tossed something at him as he headed into the clearing.

Thorin caught it and stared at it. A _stick_? He’d not train with wooden weapons since he’d passed his stripling years. “Is this a joke?” Thorin snapped at the other Dwarf. He did not know what that soldier was playing at, but if training was only a game to him, Thorin would not suffer it.

“The principle’s the same, really,” Dwalin drawled, testing his own stick, as if he hadn’t heard Thorin’s question at all.

Thorin was just going to open his mouth to argue that point, when the attack came. Out of nowhere. He saw the blur across the space, and the wood was lancing upon him. Wheeling around, he parried it, but not before it flicked across his cheek, leaving a stinging stripe on his skin. Steadying himself as quickly as he could, Thorin squared his stance, holding his stick up in readiness for the next strike. His teeth were gritted. That attack had not been warned.

The soldier chuckled, just as the sky began to lighten around them in soft azure-gold. “Lesson one,” he said to Thorin. “The enemy will not announce his intent. And if I had been one, your brain would be painting the ground by now.”

“My face, maybe,” Thorin retorted, hand tightening on his makeshift weapon. That bastard of a soldier was right – which just incensed him even more. “But I’ll still be able to fight.”

Again a lightning-swift strike without warning. Thorin blocked it, their sticks clacking and straining against each other. Then Thorin heaved off his opponent’s weapon, and this time, his footing was sure.

“You’re learning,” Dwalin cocked his head. “Not such a ponderous oaf, after all.”

Thorin was moving before he knew it. He lunged forward, swinging his weapon as he did so. Yet again their sticks collided, and Dwalin’s snapped from the force. Without slowing, the soldier pivoted and caught Thorin’s weapon-wrist in one hand, holding it off.

“Lesson two. You don’t need a weapon to win a fight.”

Thorin swung his free arm around to dislodge the soldier’s hold, but Dwalin anticipated it and grasped it. In the next breath, Thorin found himself shoved back into the trunk of a tree and his arms trapped against his chest. He tested Dwalin’s grip instantly, bucking forward, but it was futile. He was effectively pinned in place.

“And the final lesson,” the soldier said in a low voice, his face suddenly serious now, all pretences dropped. “Control that temperament of yours, Your Grace.”

“Coming from you,” Thorin growled, and thrashed again. Dwalin didn’t budge an _inch_.

“From me, yes,” Dwalin said. His expression grew strange – carefully guarded and leadened, somehow. He bent his head forward, and something about his demeanour made Thorin go still and quiet. “Years ago, a soldier’s apprentice – a mere lad – saw an Orc. Just one. Tribe-less and starving. Easy picking. He thought he’d try his luck, but he forgot that desperate creatures fight the fiercest. And he was overwhelmed and his weapons-master had to save his arse. Now the lad did deliver the killing blow in the end, but not before his weapons-master lost a hand to that Orc. A great warrior maimed.” Dwalin fell quiet then, and in that moment, it seemed there was regret in his gaze. A bit of defeat, perhaps.

It was not the right look for a soldier, not one like Dwalin, who better suited a brazen, reckless countenance. “That’s a stupid lad,” Thorin said at length, lifting his chin, daring Dwalin to say otherwise.

The soldier regarded him intently, before he snorted. “Very.” There was a wry twitch to his beard.

“I won’t make that mistake.”

“We’ll see.”

Thorin chose that very moment to twist free and dart up again, very nearly managing to land his fist across Dwalin’s face.

But the other Dwarf was swifter still, and evaded the blow. The lazy arrogance was back on his face as he paced around the clearing. “Not too bad,” Dwalin acknowledged. “I remember once I fought this boy over a dagger. An _imp_ , about this size.” He held up his thumb and forefinger with an inch between them. “You may be a little better than he.”

Bloody bastard of a soldier. But it was annoyance that Thorin felt then, not quite the searing anger of before. Gruffly, he picked up another stick and removed the twigs and leaves from it. Then, he looked up at Dwalin. “Here.”

Dwalin caught the newly-crafted weapon in his hand and grinned.

++++++++++

So on many a day that stretched with seemingly no end in sight, Dwalin and Thorin trained and sparred. Dwalin drove him with a hard hand, with the grim reality of bloodshed ever present at the back of his mind. A sword was the extension of one’s arm. _Never waste a single movement, never turn your back. And never take your eyes off your enemy_. Strength was vital. There would be moments when just a single strong blow could secure victory, or at least, avoided death.

Thorin absorbed the lessons, proving to be a most apt pupil. And Dwalin pushed him ever harder on the training ground. The warrior’s punches were true, and his kicks found their marks. When they used weapons of steel and not the sticks of before, Dwalin would not maim, but he did not gentle his strikes. Thorin had been schooled in combat from the day he could run, as all Dwarves, and he was a formidable opponent. Only ten autumns stood between the two in age but Dwalin had the greater wealth in experience. For all of the prince’s skill and courage, it was Dwalin’s blows that landed with greater frequency and Thorin too often returned to the royal dwelling with scrapes and gashes that needed the healers’ touch.

But Thorin never complained a word. If there was pain, he absorbed it with nary a grimace. If he was bested in combat, he was frustrated but always returned to the training grounds with something a little _better_ for their next round. And as the days passed, he grew stronger, and the light seemed to shine ever brighter in his eyes.

It was that brilliance in the prince’s gaze that began to trouble Dwalin. Over time, the natural disdain and suspicion the prince held for him had begun to dissipate. Then it became replaced by respect, and _something else_ of an entirely different nature. Dwalin was a soldier through and through. He did not fully understand the changing dynamics between them. He had moments of discovery, when he felt the prince’s gaze lingering upon him, or realised how the prince seemed to have grown sensitive to his touch, even when it was most innocent.

Then there was that one time when Thorin had blurted out, quite unwittingly and unbidden, judging from his flush, that he enjoyed their training sessions more than anything else in his life. Dwalin could only grunt a vague reply. He was a _soldier._ Managing a prince’s emotions was not his duty, and certainly not his skill. He thought perhaps one day, Thorin would tire of training with him and seek exhilaration elsewhere.

“Here,” the young prince called abruptly to him one day.

They had just completed yet another session, and Dwalin had won yet again, but using all his effort and skills. It had not been an easy victory, and they both knew it.

Thorin’s head was tilted. He didn’t look unhappy at losing. Quite on the contrary, there was a something resembling a smile upon his lips. “A reward for your services from an imp,” he tossed something through the air.

Good thing Dwalin was alert, and instinctively reached out to grasp the _dagger_ by its hilt. The same one from long ago, polished to a brilliant sheen now, and gleaming beneath the sunlight. The warrior stared at it, then began guffawing in mighty roars. _Little brat princeling._ Thorin began laughing too, and the air in the clearing shook with their mirth.

Somehow, Thorin never did grow weary of their time spent in training. And Dwalin forgot himself and grew used to such heady, intoxicating days with the prince.

++++++++++

A year since Thrain had first bestowed the task upon him, it was yet another midsummer, when the sun hung highest in the sky. For the first time in their training sessions, Dwalin had his breath taken away by the young prince, solidly knocked out of his chest as Thorin kicked his legs out from under him.

“Your attention is lacking,” Thorin scoffed, laughter rumbling in his voice.

Dwalin decided wisely against revealing that his attention had been captured by his prince since their first day of training. Instead, he rolled to his feet with more swiftness than his size belied parried Thorin’s next blow, and locked an arm around him, pulling the lad into his chest. “You are learning well, Thorin,” he said into his ear.

Thorin twisted free with a snarl, and readied his position in one smooth movement. His cheeks seemed unnaturally red “You call me by name,” he scowled, sounding very much like a bear with an injured paw. Truth be told, Dwalin had been calling him _by name_ for a while now, but it always seemed to matter more when Thorin was at a disadvantage.

“Aye, Thorin, that I did.” Dwalin affirmed. He snapped forward, breached the prince’s defenses quickly enough, and returned the favour by tumbling the lad backwards onto his rump.

A most ungainly yelp and a clumsy flail of limbs later, Dwalin had the prince on his back, pinned, and writhing against his hold. Thorin was no tender youngling, but Dwalin had the power of a battle-hardened warrior. The prince eventually stilled his futile struggles and simply lay quiet, steadying his breathing, staring up at Dwalin.

Few Dwarves would look so boldly into Dwalin’s gaze without fear, and this _brat_ dared do so. Dwalin shifted his weight so that he kept the prince imprisoned at thighs, chest, and hands around wrists. Thorin’s gaze was steely, and flaring _just_ wide at the edges in an effort to quell his rising fluster. Dwalin had no doubt the young prince had never been trapped in a position as intimate as this, their bodies pressed so closely he could feel the quickening of Thorin’s heartbeat. Thorin’s beard, merely a thick scruff at his jaw, could not hide the tremble of his lips.

This was no mere battle-frenzy in the youth. Dwalin knew _desire_ when he saw it, especially when it echoed in a quieter, yet no less hungry simmer in his own belly. Neither of them was particularly surprised by it, for this near-ravenous need had begun building up between them since training started a year ago.

But Dwalin had always suppressed the urge, never allowed it to surface. Right then, looking down at the heavy-lidded, beautiful face of his prince, lust surged anew in raging flames throughout Dwalin, and his control was eroding terrifyingly fast.

On other days with other willing bodies, there would be no stopping Dwalin from taking what the young prince was offering him. But even Dwalin, who revelled in the pleasures of battle glory and flesh alike, found himself bound by a moral compass that he thought had forsaken him a long time ago. Union between men was not uncommon, for they had so few women in their midst, but it was not spoken of in the open, and those who bore such secrets carried them like festering wounds in their hearts – for their whole lives.

The prince was young, and knew not the implications of what he desired.

“Dwalin,” Thorin began, his voice hoarse with want, yet hesitant, and so vulnerable. “I – ”

“Go home, Thorin,” Dwalin heard himself say, rising off the lad. In no time, he was standing up and dusting himself off, several paces away.

Thorin rose onto his elbows. His hair was dishevelled from their sparring, and face flushed. “You would send me home like a spurned maiden?” He was incredulous and furious, and Dwalin felt apprehension. If he let his gaze linger on Thorin too long, take in the prince’s desperate need, he would succumb and what would become of the both of them then?

“Do you think yourself noble?” Thorin’s voice rose sharply. “That by denying me, you would keep your reputation untainted and – ”

A growl ripped free from Dwalin’s throat; he moved without thinking. In the next heartbeat, he had a fist curled into Thorin’s collar – he hauled the younger Dwarf up and _close_ – and they were barely an inch apart. Thorin gasped audibly, his breath stuttering across Dwalin’s face. Dwalin kissed him quiet, biting at his lips till they opened with a strangled cry, and he thrust his tongue into warm, sweet heat with rough possession. He wanted to vent, wanted to punish the prince for starting something that would ruin himself.

Then Thorin _responded_ , tongue meeting his own, then growing bolder as they kissed desperately in the waning light. It seemed all that they had pent up in the last year were unleashed without restraint, and without care. Tangled together, they sought one kiss after another, each growing deeper than the last. And by Mahal, Dwalin knew not how he held himself back from ravaging the rest of the lad, but he did. With pure strength of will, Dwalin wrenched his mouth off the prince. Thorin’s arms were still wrapped around Dwalin’s neck, and he carefully loosened them.

“I’m not noble,” Dwalin said finally, quietly, and that seemed to silence Thorin more effectively than ranting would. “Not by any measure. But you are prince, and I am soldier. You do not know yet how this may damage you.” He stepped away from the prince, putting distance between them. “I cannot stay here for long. I am needed with the guards.” He did not say that he had received his order months ago, but deferred his move, on the grounds that the young prince needed yet more training.

They regarded each other out of weary, uncertain gazes, and at length, it was Thorin who looked away.

“I will go home,” the prince said, gathering his coat around himself with unsteady fingers. He paused, then forged ahead with a sort of blind, furious determination, “But I will return and finish this one day.”

Dwalin thought for a moment he had gone mad. Didn’t Thorin hear a word of what he just said?

“I cannot stop you from refusing me,” Thorin said by way of explanation, correctly guessing Dwalin’s thoughts. “But you cannot stop me from trying.” He shouldered his weapons across his back and turned his head just enough for the sunlight to glance across his eyes, piercing and overly-bright. “One day I will be King, and you will be a warrior the likes of which Erebor has not seen in decades. But until then, we – ” He lifted his chin with the pride that they both knew he did not quite feel. “We will do what we must.”

That stubborn, hard-headed fool of a princeling.

Dwalin watched him leave. _Do what we must._ He sighed and rubbed a thumb across the ridge of his forehead, closed his eyes. A sudden vision came to his mind, of a proud little Dwarfling who fought an older stripling so ferociously for nothing more than a dagger. Dwalin had claimed defeat then.

He opened his eyes again. That was possibly Mahal’s plan all along. His whole life, he was destined to lose from the start. All his mind and all his soul surrendered to the Young Prince of Erebor.

But time would not stop for them, and neither would the wheels and cogs of their lives. They had their individual calling. The Kingdom under the Mountain needed their young prince as the royal rulers grew aged by the day. The border camps needed their soldiers.

So Dwalin did what he should have done months ago. He told Thrain that Thorin was ready for battle, took his leave, and left the halls of Erebor.

Until they met again, they would do what they had to in their own ways.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this story. ^^ I feel like I must say that because I'm really just writing my own headcanon here!


	3. Chapter 3

It would be the summer after the next, two years later, that they would meet again. Skirmishes along the borders of Erebor had kept the border guards grounded there at all times. There had been increased sightings of Orcs and darkness ever encroached on the surrounding Mirkwood. All the races that inhabited the lands had their own private troubles with enemies.

There were stories too of the sickness that had taken root in their King. No, not stories. It was the truth now – an open secret amongst the people. Their beloved Arkenstone glowed at the head of the King’s throne, ever brilliant, and ever a symbol of a fierce and consuming love of all precious things under the Mountain. Now it reflected Thror’s mind, a gold-lust tainted by growing obsession. Moments when the sickness was a little less apparent, when familiar fondness twinkled in Thror’s clouded gaze as it rested upon his son, and grandchildren, Thorin allowed himself a little respite, felt some relief. It was not so bad, perhaps, this sickness. There was cure yet.

But such moments grew few and far between. There was little Thrain could do, for he was Crown Prince still, and not yet King. So he kept guard by Thror’s side, becoming the King’s voice and eyes when they grew feeble from age and distracted by the Treasury. Thorin, on his part, did what he must. His lessons never stopped, Balin saw to that. Nor did the news and reports of the border guards falter in their regularity in reaching Thorin’s ears. He needed to know, for those guards were their first line of defence against attacks, he told Balin, ignoring the knowing gleam in the older Dwarf’s gaze.

It seemed only right that Balin _would_ know of what transpired between Thorin and Dwalin. Nothing escaped Balin. Yet the wise statesman never spoke of it, and Thorin never raised the subject. He had no certainty that Balin supported them, but as yet, there was no indication that he disapproved.

It was an orderly, structured, and ultimately, dreary pass of days. Thorin longed for the feel of flesh striking and weapons meeting. And perhaps, it was because he had desired so fiercely and resolutely, that Mahal heard his thoughts and granted him.

That very day, the border guards were returning. That also meant a certain warrior would be amongst them. An infuriating arse of a soldier who left the Court and went away for two years. Well, not a mere soldier anymore. A decorated _warrior_ – going by the reports Thorin had received – returning to the kingdom.

Very soon, in these great halls of Erebor, Thorin would not be so alone.

The entourage of royalty and handservants passed the winding paths to the Great Hall, and Thorin spared a glance at himself as they strode past the looking-glasses lining the antiqued walls. The servants had dressed him in the cobalt blue of court finery. Trimmings of fur and gold-embroidered runes lined his outercoat, and above it, his beard had grown long enough to be braided and clasped with sapphire fastenings. He had steadfastly refused to have his hair fussed over, and now it hung over his shoulders in dark, unruly locks. Thorin was aware enough of his own appearance. He was not the handsomest of Dwarfs, and he had heard disparaging remarks about his not-Dwarven-enough features, but he _knew_ he was not unattractive. Besides, he had felt the desire and longing in that kiss from two years back, and that allowed Thorin small comfort about his visage.

Once the King and Crown Prince were seated, Thorin took his place by the right flank and kept his gaze straight ahead as the border guards marched into the Great Hall. He would _not_ search for the familiar figure of the warrior Dwarf. It had been only two years, nothing worth mentioning in the long annals of Dwarven history, and he could wait another hour if he must.

The border guards presented themselves, bellowing their greetings to their lords. Every one of them had been personally appointed by Thrain himself; each a true and tested warrior in battle.

The second-in-command of these Dwarven border guards now stepped forward, head bowed. The act of subservience took nothing away from his great height and broadness, and the indomitability of his bearing, which seemed to fill the entire hall. His leather jerkin bore the Durin crest at the trim, and the shoulders were pelted with thick fur, an honour that Thror accorded him, and one that stood him apart from the rest of the guards. He had gone and gotten his black mane of hair shorn shorter at the temples, Thorin noted when he finally allowed himself to _look_. Oddly it made him look even more fearsome than before, drew attention to his thickly-braided beard and the smirking line of his lips. Smug bastard, that, but one who sent sparks of want and need through Thorin’s every vein with just a single look.

“Thorin, will you not say a word in honour of our guards?”

Thorin bowed his head at Thror’s request, moving solemnly to the warrior Dwarf and stopping before him. Had two years passed so quickly? It seemed less now, as they studied each other. Yet it also seemed longer. Thorin ached to touch, and he forced his urge down, not letting it affect his demeanour.

“You have fought well, Dwalin,” he said, keeping his words measured and slow, remembering his tutor’s admonishments about speaking like a prince. “We are honoured to have your allegiance, and your presence with us here in this Great Hall.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Dwalin returned, his gaze flicking up and so intense Thorin felt it almost as a caress upon his skin. And it lingered on him afterwards, searing him through his coat, as Thror and Thrain made speeches in grand extolment of the guards.

They stayed that way for long moments, all sound and sight in the hall narrowed only to each other’s existence. It was strange, how a mere warrior could command Thorin’s attention as such, and continued to imprison his senses, until all Thorin felt in the hall was _him_. He wondered wryly too, if their fates had been decided and set in motion that very day they had first met as children. Was it a grand scheme of the Maker to have their paths cross again and again for all their lives?

Thorin took his leave from the ceremony. It would end soon, and he wanted to wait by that path that led to the guards’ quarters. He would speak to Dwalin about military strategies when the warrior passed by – something about fortifying the safety of the borders.

It was another period of waiting, though he could hear the ceremony drawing to a close. Rather stiffly, Thorin stood where he was, in a sort of stone alcove tucked away from the path. He had been taught many lessons, but waylaying a warrior was not one of them, and he felt tensed. Why were the guards taking so long? Frowning, Thorin stepped out from the alcove.

A shadow detached from the wall and loomed up before him.

“There you are,” the figure growled.

Before Thorin could even breathe, he was caught and shoved back deep into the alcove. His stance was ready, his limbs already poised for fight. And he would have attacked, but he didn’t. He knew _that voice_.

Thorin found himself pressed up against cool stone, and a large, muscular body crushed into his own.

“You ambushed a prince,” Thorin said archly. He kept himself still, and he was glad for the dimness of the alcove, so the heat on his face might not be so apparent. His gaze was direct and unflinchingly locked on those dark, flashing eyes above him.

Dwalin’s laugh was deep and achingly familiar. It had been so long since he heard that laugh Thorin thought he would have forgotten the sound of it. But no, hearing it now, it was almost as if Dwalin had never left. And like the impudent arse he always was, Dwalin continued to lean into him, the heat from his body seeping into Thorin and making him light-headed.

“You were waiting for me,” the warrior remarked knowingly as he lowered his head, so that their faces were so close they were sharing breath.

It tempted Thorin into lifting his chin so that their lips would touch, but Thorin refused to let himself do so. Yet he could not pull back or that would be as good as revealing how Dwalin’s proximity was affecting him.   

“I wanted to speak with you,” Thorin replied, and his fingers dug into the stone at his sides. They were so close that scents were breaking over him – of leather and armour grease and washes of blood and battle. Old scents he knew too well.

“Speak, then.”

“Not here,” Thorin hissed, then bit back a snarl when Dwalin chuckled low in his throat. How was it that every time he was with Dwalin, he wanted to kiss him and punch him in equal measures? “The meadow.”

“It’s not safe there, either.”

“It is. I made sure of that.”

Even in the dark, he could see the amused gleam in Dwalin’s eyes. “And how did you do that, my Prince?”

“It’s mine now, to begin with. So I had a wall built and secured it,” Thorin retorted. He knew the laugh was coming. Still, it irked him when Dwalin took some time to simply _shake_ with mirth.

“Did you snatch that ground off a poor farmer or – ”

“I _bought_ it,” Thorin scoffed, sounding more indignant than he would like to, well, sound. “Do you know that I had to parley with the Dale mayor for a week over it? _Men_ and their obsession with fancy words.”

“So it is yours now?”

“Yes,” Thorin couldn’t help sounding a little self-righteous about it. “And as is everything else in it. I would speak with you there. Tomorrow, at dawn.” he added quietly.

“Mad as bollocks, you are,” Dwalin was grinning. Then he seemed to sober, and he bent his head so his nose just nudged into Thorin’s hair. “You smell the same as before,” his voice seemed a rumble in the air.

“You look more ridiculous than before with that hair,” Thorin muttered, already turning towards the warrior’s touch.

The sound of approaching footfalls made Thorin snap to attention.

Dwalin stepped back swiftly, and he flashed Thorin a bearded, roguish grin, before leaving the alcove. From where he was, Thorin heard the warrior greeting and jesting with the passing courtiers and asking them to guide him to the guards’ quarters for he got lost on the way.

Thorin shook his head with a soft snort. Unbelievable. But all his thoughts were now concentrated on their next meeting. Once the footfalls had faded away and silence reigned yet again, Thorin emerged from the alcove and felt more alive than he had in too long a time.

++++++++++

When he reached the meadow, the first ray of sunlight was just breaking over the horizon. He’d grown attached to this place. It was no more than just a small, forgotten clearing just at the borders of the town of Men, Dale, and it was everything that did not sit natural with Dwarves. Too open, too windy, and in the summer, overly-drenched in molten sun. But the memories here, of wild, wrestling bouts and the exhilarating clash of training swords; those were possessions that none of the great halls and splendid caverns of Erebor could yield. Now, it was _his_.

He hadn’t told Dwalin the secret to unlocking the wall. The warrior would have to work his own mind for it.

“Very clever,” Dwalin’s voice was a throaty chuckle in the crisp, dawn air as he emerged from the woods. “Your door pass-word. Ancient Khuzdul. Won’t know it if Balin hadn’t drilled it into me since I could talk.”

The warrior Dwarf had gotten past the doors more quickly than expected. No matter. Thorin turned, broad sword already clutched in one hand. He gestured to the weaponry lined up to the side. “Arm yourself.”

Dwalin raised one black brow as he obeyed the command. The contemplative look was back in his eyes, the same one Thorin had been subjected to in the court. “I see you’re all ready. I thought we were going to speak?” There was a wry glint in his eyes.

“I am speaking. With my sword. Now _arm_ yourself.” Thorin repeated. He needed to do this. Their last meeting in the meadow had ended in a way that left him with unsettledness and troubled sleep, and he must put that right now. He raised his sword. “Ready.”

Thorin was the first to spring. Quick, brutal, and their weapons met with a resounding cry of metal and force. He drew back, blocked, and struck again, sword whirling in a swift change of stance. Dwalin parried, and pressed down with his might; his expression was that of a training master, assessing, cool, critical. He started to say something about the angle of Thorin’s wrist, but Thorin cut him off with a snarl and charged again. It was foolish, of course, Thorin had enough presence of mind to know he was fighting like a brawling youth, but it had been years – _two_ years since he last faced Dwalin and it was all he could do to keep his emotions from seething over.

Dwalin would end this soon. He was too good a teacher not to put a stop to this session, knowing Thorin’s mind was not in the right place. There it was – a quick feint and Dwalin’s sword hurtled down on his own blade, the force weighing down all _wrong_ on his wrist, and his weapon spun out of his hand.

Disarmed, Thorin ducked a swiping cut from the other Dwarf’s sword, and came up again to collide squarely into Dwalin’s chest. The momentum brought them both to the ground in a mess of limbs and bellowing curses from Dwalin. At his boot, Thorin’s hand found his hidden falchion.

“What in the name of Mahal were you doing? I could have sliced you in two, you stupid – ” Dwalin broke off suddenly, realising the falchion at his throat.

“I win,” Thorin said quietly.

Dwalin’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. There was true anger in his countenance. “That was foolish and ridiculous, and you could have died _by my sword_ , Thorin!”

“Then it would have been a worthy death.”

“And an expensive one when I have to clean out your blood from my vest!”

They glared at each other. Then Dwalin’s beard bristled and his eyebrows twitched, and he was chortling, a deep, thundering noise that battered at Thorin’s senses until he was laughing too. It felt good, to laugh, feeling the tumult that had dogged him for the past two years fading from his chest.

“You are the most foolhardy and splendidly mad prince I have ever met.”

“I am the only prince you’ve ever met.”

A broad grin split Dwalin’s face. “Aye, that too. So,” His head tilted, the last echoes of their laughter fading in the warm air. “You win. I yield,” his expression grew solemn. “Now, princeling, what would you have me do?”

Thorin was not unaware of their positions. In a way, it was a reflection of transpired two years ago, when Thorin had been pinned on his back. Yet in other strange ways, it was not quite the same now. Time had passed, too much of it, and made Thorin weigh all the costs that a forbidden lust could exact from him. He knew what consequences might haunt them. Tongues would wag in the Court. He risked his own reputation and Dwalin’s glory. They had much to lose.

Still, Thorin would make a bid to get what he wanted. It was not in his nature to surrender without a good fight.

Thorin pulled away, sheathed the dagger he had held to Dwalin’s neck. The warrior Dwarf was now propped on elbows, the now-familiar smirk curling on his lips. Thorin would never be able to decipher how he could win in a fight against Dwalin and still end up disadvantaged. He straddled Dwalin’s thighs, the width of them forcing his own legs apart quite uncomfortably. The thinnest of layers separated the rising heat of their groins.

Above them, the summer sun had climbed high in the sky, and now the rays beat down upon them in trails of sweat rising on their skin.

“What do you want?” Dwalin’s voice was even lower now, rough, and its timbre sent an answering thrum through every nerve in Thorin’s body. He was so hot, as though every vein in his body was set aflame, yet the grind of their loins was hotter still.

That simple question dug deep into Thorin. He _wanted_ , had been left _wanting_ for two years, empty and alone many nights in his own chambers. And even when he gave in and took partners into his bed and released himself into their bodies, he was still left unsated. There were too many things he could not have, desires which danced maddeningly out of reach, and other unnamed emotions that were now spilling unbidden from his chest.

He wanted _this_.

He curled his hands into Dwalin’s collar and brought their mouths crashing together. A sound of pure need tore from his throat, and Dwalin drank it in, a hand coming up to wind into Thorin’s hair and keeping him locked against him. All skill was abandoned, and the base desires took over as the kiss deepened. Dwalin tasted of fire and metal, something like the gold that ran through the veins of the mountain. It was like the first time they had kissed, but singed with a desperate desire, and made urgent by absence and longing.

When they pulled apart, it was to breathe; great tearing gasps rising and falling between them. A husky laugh teased in Thorin’s ear.

“So our boy prince has grown up. You are practiced.”

Thorin pulled back enough to regard Dwalin with a frown. There was a strangeness in Dwalin’s tone. The gentle amusement was clear enough but there was something else, an undercurrent of loss or close to it.

“There were others,” Thorin saw no need to lie and did not miss the way Dwalin’s gaze flashed at that. “Not many…I am rarely alone.” And even when he was alone, it was not always a peaceful respite, much less pleasurable.

“Would you send me home again now?” Thorin heard himself ask. He was not a lovelorn youngling and would not be treated as such, even by Dwalin. He was profoundly grateful his voice was composed and strong, even if he did not necessarily feel as such.

Dwalin raised himself slowly from his elbows. He was sitting up now, shifting Thorin back until their chests were touching. He seized one of Thorin’s hands in his own heavy-knuckled fist and brought it to his lips, denting the skin at the wrist with his teeth. “I am no celibate, Thorin.” Dwalin’s voice was a guttural growl. “I will not send pretty things away twice. And untouched.”

Thorin’s hands clutched at him, and Dwalin had a grip on his hair, dragging him close. When their lips met again, a wet heat thrust into Thorin’s mouth, demanding and territorial, and he gave himself to it, let Dwalin breathe in his moans and claim his flesh. When they broke apart, one of Dwalin’s hands slid down Thorin’s chest, to his belly, then lower still, to the front of his breeches, where it pressed into the hardness tenting through the cloth.

“Show me, princeling,” Dwalin teased, at once seductive and ravenous. “What you do to yourself when you’re alone.”

The breath caught in Thorin’s throat. His gaze unwavering, Thorin leaned back so that Dwalin’s gaze had unobscured access to him. All thought had fled his mind. There was only need, and a fierce want to see hunger and heat in Dwalin’s face. If Dwalin wanted to watch him, then Thorin would not refuse. He tugged at his own breeches, threading fingers through the laces to free them. It was almost a relief to be rid of them; they loosened and he pulled them apart to free his erection. It sprung up thick, and hardening still, against his belly.

“Let me see.”

He lowered his breeches as far as they could go, trapped at his knees. Sweat trickled down his bared thighs, cooling quickly in the air and tingling his skin. Unclothed, his legs were too pale, too long, and covered only with a light dusting of dark hair. The hair grew thicker between his thighs, against which his sack nestled, aching with need already. His member _pulsed_ in the morning air, a thick, veined shaft throbbing with arousal. It seemed to strain towards the warrior, and the way Dwalin’s eyes raked greedily over it made Thorin’s lips go dry.

Hands unsteady, Thorin grasped his erect cock and began to stroke it. It swelled rapidly under his own touch, and his hand hastened over it. It was unbecomingly indecent; it felt like he was putting on a show for the warrior, as though he was little more than a wench in a pleasure-house. Yet he grew even more aroused by his own lewdness. His flesh swelled to full hardness, the head turning dark with lust.

“Stop.”

A soft noise rumbled in Thorin’s throat. Yet he obeyed still, forcing his own hand away. Now his cock pointed straight out, a wanton, red column.

A large, sword-callused hand rose and closed around Thorin’s shaft, and he had to grit his teeth, stifling the moans in his chest. Dwalin worked him with the torturous art of a master blacksmith, dragging his palm over and over the column of heated flesh, the other hand cupping and fondling his testicles.

Thorin jerked his hips into that cunning touch, unable to stop the ragged groans grating through his throat. Fluid dribbled from his cock and Dwalin’s fingers swirled trails over the slit, teasing yet more wetness from it.

“Look at yourself, my prince.”

Thorin somehow found the mind to obey, forcing his eyes down. Breeches down to his knees, his thighs _shaking_ with the effort of holding himself upright, sides heaving with erratic breaths, and his erection glistening as Dwalin’s hand pumped relentlessly over it. Thorin’s cheeks burned with shame and lust, yet he could not look away still, imprisoned by the pure, hunger in Dwalin’s gaze as it feasted upon his nakedness.

He could feel the end approaching, the last shreds of his resolve shattering, and he thrust wildly into Dwalin’s fist. He came with an almost blinding rush, strings of white spattering over his belly and linen shirt. He sagged against Dwalin’s chest, breathless and wrung out. An arm wrapped around his waist, soothing him as he shook with the aftermath of his climax.

Afterwards, Thorin rolled onto his back and stared skywards. A sort of languid satedness now suffused through his limbs, making him drowsy. Beside him, Dwalin’s eyes were closed. They lay like that, not quite touching, and soaked in the silence.

++++++++++

The rest of the summer days passed in a lazy slide of harsh lessons on the training grounds, punctuated now and then with equally hard, still-clothed rutting amongst the grasses, or feverish touches and kisses in any space they could disappear from the prying eyes of the world.

And once again, somehow, they were in the same alcove that they had been in only weeks ago.

Dwalin nuzzled into that neck until he found bare skin, and he sank his teeth into it. Not so hard that he would break the skin, but sharp enough to leave a pretty bruise there.

Below, Thorin’s lower body thrust up into him. He was panting and nearly biting through his lip to be quiet, and Dwalin thought he would test that resolve just a little more. He reached down and cupped the younger Dwarf’s buttocks, hauling him up into their rough rhythm, making sure he felt each fleshy slide of their bared cocks against each other.

“ _Dwalin_ ,” the young prince groaned, burying his face into Dwalin’s shoulder to muffle himself.

There was scarcely enough space to move, their breeches were tangled around their knees, and it was filthy. Rutting out there like that – in an alcove under the Mountain. But it was also a dangerous thrill – a mad revelry in the feel of their heated, sticky flesh rubbing and grinding and spewing.

“Fingers,” Dwalin heard Thorin mutter, and he fancied the princeling’s cheeks must be blazing with his own lewd request.

“Spread yourself,” Dwalin returned, rumbling with satisfaction as one of Thorin’s legs rose and wrapped around his waist to open himself up. His fingers dug between the rounded swells flexing beneath his palms until they found that tiny ring of muscle beneath.

There was a sharp inhalation and Thorin’s head lifted. Dwalin pressed their foreheads together just as his fingers began to caress that secret hole between the prince’s legs. “You like that?” he teased, pushing one finger into Thorin’s entrance – just a little – every now and then to make his eyes grow wide.

In retaliation, Thorin’s hand reached between their thrusting bodies and seized both their cocks, hurrying them along with quick, sure strokes. “You like this?” the younger Dwarf shot back at him.

Dwalin grinned fiercely and shut himself up by kissing his lover. Their stifled moans spilled feverishly into the air, as did their cocks spurting wetly between their skin. What other sounds they could not silence in time were simply swallowed in each other’s mouth.

The small alcove throbbed with their harsh breaths after they had spent themselves. Thorin still had his leg curled around him and his own hands were very much fondling the young prince’s arse. It was proving rather difficult _not_ touching Thorin.

“I want more than that,” Thorin said abruptly, his gaze flaring with not entirely-fulfilled desire.

The warrior growled a laugh. He began to trace that tight cleft at Thorin’s buttocks. “Make no mistake, Thorin. There is more to teach you – _here_.” He ended his dark promise with a hearty pinch of the prince’s rump.

Thorin jerked against him with a gasp and scowled right after. “Then teach me _now_. Stop teasing.”

“You are late for lessons in court.” Dwalin reminded him with a bit of regret.

“They can _wait_.”

“Then Balin would have my head for sport.” Dwalin snorted. He kissed Thorin at the temple as the prince tried to make his sated limbs work to cover himself up again, and laughed when Thorin grumbled about his unhelpfulness. Another kiss on Thorin’s lips hushed him well enough.

So Thorin quieted, content for the moment to clean and dress himself, taking longer than truly necessary. They would have to leave soon. To keep up the daily churn of Court life and make their presence felt where it was needed. Dwalin would join his fellow guards as they train and Thorin had his studies of history and culture and strategy as his destiny willed of him.

But for now, they stayed in the little corner hidden under the Mountain, and rested as they forgot the world outside.

* * *

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep...mostly sex. Heh. I think I just wanted an excuse to get them into a couple of smutty situations.


	4. Chapter 4

It was quite odd that the one part of the Kingdom Balin favoured above others was the battlements overlooking the entire landscape of outer Erebor and Dale. It was not so much the illusion of grandeur, but a certain sense of languidness that life still went on, never mind what might plague the lands or the people.

And that morning, he found himself in the company of someone unexpected. That large, strong figure, robed in red, was silent in its contemplation of the world outside their Kingdom.

“Ah,” Thrain said, turning his head just enough to let Balin catch a glimpse of the patch over one eye. “You kept me waiting long enough, old friend. Come,” he gestured. “Walk with me.”

They were near the head of the battlement and they began the slow tread down its length. True to his nature, Balin’s mind was already turning over the reasons for Thrain’s abrupt presence this morning. It was the kind of mental exercise Balin often engaged in. They were close in age; after decades of autumns, one ceased to keep count of the exact number of years that had passed. He simply remembered growing up and taught to serve the throne, just as Thrain had been drilled to be Crown Prince. Almost parallel lives, with vastly differing fates. They were friends, as Thrain had referred to him, but they had always been more lord and subordinate.

The only reason for the walk now really could not be anything else but that overarching issue that now cropped up between them – Balin’s brother and Thrain’s son. Heavily rumoured to be involved in a _dalliance_ – that was the unsavoury word used.

Thrain paused now and turned to him. Even with just one visible eye and a benign smile upon his lips, his demeanour was stately. “Do you know why I appointed Dwalin to be my son’s personal trainer?”

Balin held his Crown Prince’s gaze. “Dwalin’s good at what he does. When he’s not being destructive and an arse towards the authorities. Pardon my language, my lord.”

Thrain’s smile widened into a grin, and for one brief moment, he was the lad Balin had grown up with. “All those count as valid reasons, Balin. You know how Thorin is.”

They shared a mutually long-suffering roll of the eyes, each recalling that fateful day Dwalin and Thorin had first been introduced to each other. A stretch of companionable silence followed, and in its wake, Balin realised abruptly how much they had both aged.

“Do you forbid the _bond_ between the two of them?” Balin ventured, choosing his words carefully. Yet there was really no other way to say it than to be direct about it. “Would you have me put an end to it?”

Thrain stared at him for a long moment. “And what good would come of that? Understand this, Balin. My allegiance will always be to the line of Durin. To my father before me, and my son after.”

That was not quite the response Balin had estimated.

“I want someone to pledge loyalty to Thorin. Not by oath, but by choice,” Thrain spoke again. He grew solemn and his eyes were hard. “Protect him with his life. Die if he must. Without question or hesitation. I saw that quality in Dwalin, and I used it.”

Balin saw it too, admittedly. His thick-headed fool of a brother whose life would always be guided by what came to heart, rather than to mind. Whether that _quality_ was boon or bane remained to be seen.

“Do you think me cruel, Balin?” Thrain finished evenly. There was steel in his bearing. He’d always been different from King Thror. Less the fiery warrior, and more a man of quiet thought, weighed down by an ailing father and ghosts of ancestors.

“No,” Balin said at length. He shook his head and pursed his lips. “I think you burdened. And blunt.”

Thrain’s eyes widened briefly at Balin’s startlingly frank assessment. Then he threw his head back and guffawed. It was a strange sound from someone thought to have forgotten how to laugh. A good sound.

“I hope you’re as charming to the rest of the Court. Those damned ministers. Half of them have sticks up their arses the size of my arm.”

Turned out Balin was entirely accurate about Thrain being as blunt as a boulder. “Aye, my lord,” Balin agreed.

“The Court will not be kind. Thorin needs your help. He doesn’t know it just yet,” Thrain kept quiet for another heartbeat, then he began striding again, gesturing at Balin to keep up. “Come. There’s a long way ahead.”

++++++++++

Dwalin had warned him to be careful – and quiet about what now existed between them – but Thorin knew not why he must hide the true nature of their bond. Dwalin was a great warrior of Erebor, and Thorin the prince. They had both served Erebor with their hearts and minds, and would do so for the rest of their lives. Why should they need to account for themselves to outsiders then? They owed the world nothing.

If anything, the world owed him. In a fell swoop, he had been separated from both his brother and sister. Frerin was so young yet he was sent away to be tutored in seclusion by esteemed Elder Dwarves. Dis was barely of age and already offered up for official courting. He rarely saw them now, and when he did, the _silence_ between them, of unspoken sibling love and the inevitability of their fates, spoke more eloquently than their measured, etiquette-laced conversations.

It seemed everyone had abandoned him to the growing weight of his duty to Court under the Mountain. He knew it was ludicrous, childish thinking, but it was difficult not to feel that way. Earlier, he had passed the Treasury and Thror was there again. Cooing over the glimmering piles, and counting. _Counting_. It seemed the gold was all that mattered now. Thror had no lack of want for anything; all that they owned now was in excess. Thorin was beginning to fear that Thror did not know himself what he so desired, and he would spend the rest of his days in this manner – always searching and searching for something he could not even name.

So Thorin had left the halls and ventured outside. He too was in a state of searching – for someone he could hardly see even when they resided in the same kingdom, sometimes, within just _paces_ away from each other – without calling too much attention to themselves.

He stood now in one of the largest and seediest taverns in Erebor, and his nose wrinkled with the churning smells of filth, ale and rutting sex. He had no wish to be here. Though he enjoyed his fair share of ale and hearty meats as all Dwarves, there were other places he could get those without having to step into the street taverns. Now here he was, hovering at the entrance, dressed in the simplest attire he could find and already attracting curious stares from those near him. They found him familiar, but could not quite place him as the Young Prince of Erebor.

Looking at no one, Thorin wandered towards the bar and got himself a tankard. He was only here because he had heard that the border soldiers were regular visitors here. Noises and colours swirled confusingly around him.

He remembered Dwalin’s warning, but it blanked completely from his mind when his eyes found that familiar figure at the far end of the tavern. Surrounded by a group of his most trusted men, Dwalin was roaring at a bawdy joke, while swigging down a huge tankard of ale. It was strange watching Dwalin like this. All their time together had been spent on that meadow. Now, he saw Dwalin with other Dwarves, and so many sides of him that Thorin had not yet acquainted himself with. Dwalin laughed easily, and ensured everyone around him was never short on drink or food. He was gentle with the ladies, and congenial with the men, though mostly, he was too loud and too free with the ale he downed. He attracted attention intentionally so, and –

Thorin realised abruptly he was not the only one studying Dwalin so intently. There was another young Dwarf hovering near Dwalin. Of similar age to them, with deep-brown hair and a rich beard, which hid none of his well-formed features. Thorin was appalled at himself for noticing details like that. They were _Dwarves_. Aesthetics of the appearance was for the Men and the Elves. Yet Thorin stared at the young Dwarf and noticed that he was handsome.

And he was very close to Dwalin, hands slithering across the big Dwarf’s shoulders and down his chest, before Dwalin caught them and deflected them while putting distance between them.

It was a skilful manoeuvre, Thorin admitted at the back of his mind, but it just wasn’t enough. Thorin was already striding up the motley group of soldiers. He reached them and stared stiffly at the impudent young Dwarf. Up close, Thorin recognised him as the one of the sons of a Court official – the greasy sort that Thorin never liked. At the same time, some of the soldiers recognised _him_ , and rose to greet him.

Thorin nodded to them, going through the perfunctory greetings, before turning to look down at Dwalin. “I need to speak with you, Dwalin,” he said levelly, while his heart pounded with uncertainty and need. Just being so near the warrior comforted him, and made him even more restless. “Alone,” he added.

The warrior’s gaze was hard and brimming with both disapproval and amusement, though he complied at once, displaying nothing but deference to the prince’s order. He stood up and took his leave of the group, while Thorin stared coldly into the defiant glare from the young Dwarf.

They were silent as they made their way out of the tavern, and Dwalin snapped only three words, _my quarters now_ , once they were outside. The warrior led the way, and Thorin followed without a word. He knew Dwalin was severely displeased with that public flaunt of his status, and perhaps for displacing him from the companionship of his comrades.

Dwalin’s quarters were no more than a boarding room at an inn. He needed to journey so often that he had seen little need for a permanent abode. But he was still second-in-command of his troops, and Thorin was pleased to see that his chamber were spacious and well-furnished, if simple in design. It was also tucked away in a corner, protected from the bustle and raucousness of the rest of the inn. Candle-lamps lit the corners, casting the chamber in fractured light and velvet shadow.

That was all Thorin could observe about the architecture of the place, for Dwalin had sat himself on a chair and now looked up at him. Thorin had faced Dwalin’s blustering fury countless times and deflected them all, but this quiet anger was – different. Imprisoned by the intensity in the warrior’s gaze, Thorin could only stand there, shifting as subtly as he could manage on his feet.

“That was foolish,” the warrior said calmly. He neither exploded, nor bellowed, and that just made him sound more _right_.

Thorin didn’t like that. He crossed his arms, and fixed his glare on a spot on Dwalin’s head. “Perhaps,” he replied hotly. Dwalin might be right, but Thorin detested being chastised like a child.

“And dangerous,” Dwalin’s tone began to rise in growing ire. “A prince of Erebor, strutting about like an open target.”

“I can take care of myself,” Thorin bit back, and wished he hadn’t for he sounded ridiculous even to his own ears.

“What about me?” Dwalin countered, growling now. “If I should get my head lopped off while protecting you?”

Thorin frowned, darting a glance at Dwalin’s face, despite himself. The warrior was still scowling, but there seemed to be a twitch to his lips. Thorin couldn’t be sure, and he didn’t like being dangled like that. Or being teased, which Dwalin was excellent at. “I don’t need your protection. You take care of _your_ own head. Though I don’t see why you have a need for it.”

“To better keep you alive, Your _Grace_.”

He _heard_ the change in tone, and he saw the sudden motion from the warrior Dwarf. But Thorin barely had enough time to gasp, before a hand snagged onto his belt, and he was suddenly hauled forward. By instinct, his thighs fell open, and he found himself straddling Dwalin’s legs. The warrior had an arm locked around his back, keeping him firmly in place, and he wore the cockiest smirk on his face when he leaned up and pressed their foreheads together. As if in parallel to that, their crotches rubbed and nudged, and Thorin could feel the impressive mound digging up into his loins.

Thorin kept very still and tried just as hard to keep the glare fixed on his face. It wasn’t easy, not when Dwalin was now nuzzling into his cheek, his breath washing warm across his neck. “It was foolish and dangerous,” Dwalin laughed huskily into his ear. “But it was impressive. You’re rather fetching when you’re jealous.”

“I was _not_.”

“No, you were _intensely_ jealous.”

“Well,” Thorin conceded. “You know you are mine.” He didn’t know if this qualified as a confession, but he saw no need to be coy about it. He had never been vague or undecided about his rights, whether be it ownership over property or people. While he would never seize by force, he _knew_ when his desires were reciprocated and he would not tolerate anything less than wholehearted dedication.

Teeth bit sharply into Thorin’s neck, and immediately, cunning tongue laved over the stinging skin. Thorin inhaled sharply, unconsciously leaning into those nipping caresses. Dwalin would exploit his weakness as expected. “You – ” Thorin’s words stuttered despite his best efforts and he was _vexed_. “Bastard of a – a soldier.”His head arched back as Dwalin kissed hungrily down his throat, and the ceiling rafters drifted before his hazed eyes.

“Hmm…” Dwalin laughed, sounding more like a growl as he hauled their bodies even closer together. “Perhaps…but I’m the Young Prince’s bastard soldier.” His hand found the back of Thorin’s head, dragged it down, and they were suddenly, breathlessly face to face. “And that also means _you’re mine_.”

Dwalin’s expression was wild. A storm of many emotions.

And Thorin always did enjoy baiting the storm. A dangerous habit of his. “Does it? How should you prove it?”

“Anyone touches you,” Dwalin said without hesitating. “I’ll _kill_ him.”

Thorin was going to say something - then Dwalin’s mouth was over his and they were kissing messily, urgently, as their hands tugged cumbersome clothing out of the way.

Hard columns of flesh spilled out into the air, and they broke the kiss with uneven gasps. In between harsh pants and unsteady fingers, Thorin looked down at their erect shafts jutting out from their tangled clothing. It was lewd and obscene, and he grew even _harder_ at the sight. He heard Dwalin urging his hips up, and he obeyed for the warrior to drag their breeches down to their thighs.

There were just moments for him to take in the sheer girth of his lover’s manhood, before he was already grasping it, feeling its heat and the way it pulsed in his palm – for _him_. Then Dwalin’s hand closed around his cock, fondling him skilfully and roughly, and Thorin was groaning against Dwalin’s lips, their mouths once again seeking each other without any coherence or thought. Their hips rocking, Thorin riding each heavy buck of Dwalin’s thighs, their hands rubbed faster and faster over their aching erections.

Perhaps it was the strain of keeping it all a secret, or the sudden feel of each other after weeks of abstinence, but it was not long before they were hissing each other’s names and spilling wetness into their hands, onto their shirts and bellies.

Thorin groaned, his eyes shut, face buried into Dwalin’s neck. He laid there for long moments, unwilling to move. It was filthy – they both were now – but it felt real, and it felt good. Naked, coarse thighs beneath his own, and their sated cocks pressed together, thickly-muscled arms wrapped around him.

He could almost forget where they were, just being like _this_.

He felt Dwalin’s fingers grasp one of those braids at the side of his neck, and tugging absently on it. It was a habit Dwalin had cultivated, and it was something Thorin found oddly endearing. And, sometimes Thorin also thought that it was Dwalin’s way of reassuring him, using no words.

“My – ” Thorin spoke, and it was as though his voice was strangled in his throat. “ _Family_. I worry. Father hasn’t been sleeping well. And my grandfather – ” that was all he could manage.

“They would need you, now more than ever,” Dwalin told him, and it eased a little of the solitude that gnawed so persistently inside him. “You must not falter.”

The sharp, heavy rap against the door broke the quietness. Voices followed, demanding to see the Young Prince.

Springing apart, they dressed quickly, Thorin bellowing out for them to _wait_ , and not yelling out several more choice opinions about their very poor timing – on account of Dwalin’s warning hand upon his shoulder.

When they opened the door, they found an entire entourage of court officials standing outside, mostly wearing disapproving frowns, though there was hardly a thread out of place upon Thorin or Dwalin’s person. That young Dwarf from the tavern amongst the officials, looking so very smug about his discovery.

He spoke up now, smiling greasily as he did. “Evening, Your Grace,” he said to Thorin. “I see your discussion with Dwalin has taken many hours,” he turned his head and spoke to someone behind him. “I did tell you they’ll be here together. Though I cannot be certain about the _nature_ of their discussion.”

Thorin would punch the sneer off his face – he _would_. But already, a hand was taking the oafish young Dwarf and yanking him aside without ceremony. An older, robed, and composed statesman now stood at the door, nodding briefly to Thorin.

“Balin,” Thorin said blankly.

From behind Thorin, the warrior now appeared with a single, barking laugh. “Greetings, brother.”

The elder Dwarf looked at them. He seemed remarkably composed, though they knew him well enough to discern the warning in his gaze. “The Court summons you,” he said. “Both of you.”

++++++++++

There was talk now amongst the ministers, when the bond between prince and warrior grew too close to ignore. The closer to the Great Hall, the more hushed the talk. There were too few womenfolk amongst Dwarves. It was commonplace for bonds forged between the men that persevered into death, and even for men to love their crafts more than union of flesh itself.

_But to lie with the prince._

No one would speak ill of Erebor’s prince, but a warrior – even a mighty one – was fair game. Upon Dwalin, the rumours took on a venomous edge. His position, his deeds in battle, his allegiance to the Kingdom; all were now reasons for suspicion. He lay with the prince, and prince paved his way, apparently.

Balin long knew of the training bouts with Dwalin that Thorin insisted on, and how the prince returned to court after them with his clothes overly neat, and a rare light in his face. Foolish young prince. Even more foolish and ridiculous and mad lark of a warrior – son of Fundin, no less – who _should_ have known better than to use his own reputation as stakes. He recalled that talk with Thrain just weeks ago. Now the Crown Prince’s words had proved true.

Dwalin and Thorin were both trapped by the Court, and made the subject of scrutiny and judgment. There would be no fair judges, for each official had his own demons to exorcise, and his own cards to play. There might be a few sympathetic souls amongst them. But mostly – _mostly_ they would secure their own advantages first before all else.

“We know there is no such dalliance at play,” one such minister said then, eyes shifting beneath his brows. “But talk is rife, my lord. And over time, talk becomes rumour, and rumour becomes poison.”

Thrain was quiet and calm. He was _waiting_ , Balin knew. Not for any more official talk, or advice, or idle snickering from the more brazen ministers. He was waiting for his own son to speak.

And Thorin himself knew what he had to do. Balin had not tutored and trained him so arduously and harshly without knowing the depth of the prince’s mind. Thorin was not a natural strategist in Court. Too young, too inexperienced, and simply, too honest. He could not hide his emotions the way true masters could, and he was worse at fabricating masks of false feelings. But he could be taught, and Balin had guided the young prince in preparing the words to say should his relationship with Dwalin be forced into the open.

Yet for hours now in court, Thorin remained stubbornly silent, looking straight ahead, refusing to play his hand.

The stalemate was shattered only late into the session.

A careful silence reigned in the Hall as the new figure marched inside and towards the thrones.

Balin knew who it was without having to look. He heard those footfalls, strong and proud despite the accusing eyes searing into him and knew they belonged to his brother. So very much like their father, who drilled them both in the arts of combat.

His bearing upright and bristling, the proud arch of his head bending not one whit to the ministers and officials, Dwalin stopped before the thrones. He knelt to the young prince, and nodded just once, so subtle only Thorin seemed to see it.

The prince stood up then and greeted the ministers with composed calm. He introduced the plan of safeguarding Erebor’s outposts and surrounding landscapes with greater strength and regularity – a plan that had been labored upon by a select group of statesmen for a year already. According to discussions, which needed to be conducted in highest secret, Dwalin had been chosen to be sent to the outpost at Ravenhill. That had been the reason for such private discussions between prince and warrior all along, and not engaging in unbecoming activity as lesser ministers had insinuated.

When Thorin faltered at the mention of sending Dwalin away, Balin stepped forward and reinforced the plan, quietly challenging any opposition from the ministers, nipping all arguments in their buds, and crushing what doubt they raised about the legitimacy of Thorin’s words or Dwalin’s prowess. Thror and Thrain bestowed their approval, with finality, and ended the session.

All quieted then, many voicing their willingness to accept Thorin’s plan. Others were silent with grudging acceptance, but such was the Court. The majority was the victor.

The warrior graciously accepted the prince’s orders, bowing deeply and turning to leave. Just before he did, Thorin stepped down from the throne and with no expression on his face, said something in a low voice to him.

There was a smile at the corner of Dwalin’s lips, then he was out of the Great Hall.

++++++++++

That story of trysts between their young prince and a celebrated warrior seized the Court for months.

Then, like all stories, they faded into hearsay and drifted out of public interest.

Renewing itself was also a characteristic of Court. Before long, new scandals replaced the old, younger officials took the place of elderly, retired ranks. Rumours that once ran rife in court faded in the wake of more pressing issues. Trade and relations with Dale flourished in all its abundance and prosperity.

Led by Thranduil, the Elvenking himself, the Elves came and acknowledged the grandeur and wealth of Erebor and the Arkenstone. _The Elves paid homage_ , so whispered the officials, intoxicated with triumph and belief in their Kingdom’s absolute power.

There was also uneasy talk of approaching foul creatures, lured by the same glitter that made famous their Dwarven stronghold. No one knew what darkness was coming, and so everyone had his own version of it. And to ward off this impending misfortune, a royal marriage might just be the very tool. The young princess Dis had come of age and was ready to be wedded.

Seeing the Court once again entangled in yet another intrigue, Balin began to get ready then.

The things an old man had to do for an imbecile of a prince, and an even bigger buffoon of a younger brother.

Balin shook his head, not looking forward to the hours of trudging ahead.

* * *

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I know I took quite some time with this chapter. Real life crap, sigh. Anyway, a big thanks for everyone still sticking with the story! It's not a long, dramatic saga, by the way. ^^ It should end, uh, soon.


	5. Chapter 5

It was close to a year since he left the halls of Erebor.

Now he was at Ravenhill, their guard outpost overlooking the River Running; a small, but sturdy fortress. He had been posted here as a training commander, moulding and whipping the soldiers into a formidable force. They were good Dwarves. Strong of limb and sound of mind, and they responded well to his instructions, despite their initial mistrust. He had to earn their respect, and he did so, the hard, slow way, by suffering the elements with them, and standing at their head in the face of peril.

Visitors were rarely allowed at the Ravenhill guard post. There was a code to follow, and the rules were harsh to ensure the soldiers were always ready for battle. But for certain characters, even soldiers’ rules could be bent now and then.

Dwalin was overseeing the combat formation of the newest rank of guards, when the news arrived. Yes, Dwalin had a visitor. No, he could not turn away the visitor. And _no_ , he could not crush the visitor with his hands. So it was a thundering and enraged Dwalin who marched up to his tent in the encampment. Interrupting training was sacrilegious to any commander worth his salt.

The rant was right on Dwalin’s tongue when the visitor peeled back his hood, and now he stared, mouth opening and closing a little stupidly. “By Mahal,” he snorted when he finally got his tongue to work. “Your hair’s gone whiter since the last we met.”

“And you look every bit the unscrubbed, dirt-ridden urchin as you always do, brother,” Balin said in a clipped, most unimpressed tone. His hair was _greyer_ since they last met, not whiter. He shook out his robes, looking every inch the statesman even at an outpost on Ravenhill.

They stared at each other, sized each other up, then cracked their skulls together in a greeting that was as fond as it was brutal. Dwalin was a good head taller, but Balin went ahead and clocked his younger brother up his chin for good measure.

“What’s that for?” Dwalin yelped in a most undignified manner.

“Affection and concern,” Balin sniffed, taking his time as he surveyed the interior of the tent. Behind his thick, curled beard, his eyes were sharp, missing nothing as it rested on the precious few belongings scattered in the tent. Mostly weapons, all polished to a sheen and battle-ready. All tested in combat and tasted blood. “It has been a hard year for you,” Balin finished.

Endearments did not run openly between them; that was not the way of their clan, never had been. But Dwalin knew that was his elder brother’s backhanded way of voicing his worry.

“For everyone,” Dwalin corrected, rubbing at his chin.

He was not unaware of the stirrings in court. Even as danger presented itself in increasing frequency and violence at the borders, darkness seemed to have taken root even within the kingdom. The ambassadors from neighbouring realms of Men and Elves would pay respect to Thror, yet beneath the veneer of their civilities, their minds were shrewd and calculating. The great royalty and officials in the great halls paid no heed but flaunt the wealth of the Dwarves in banquets and rituals ever more extravagant than the last.

Balin closed his eyes briefly, for a moment looking like he had aged decades in that eleven months alone. When he opened them again, a wistful resignation shone in his gaze. “Dis is to be married.”

Dis, the youngest child of Thrain, who wielded an axe with skill and had a laugh like the sun itself. Shackled by her womanhood ever since she came of age, and subjected to despondent loneliness when Frerin was isolated by his tutelage, and Thorin groomed as the heir to the throne.

Dwalin glared with the rage that Dis could never show. “She is too young.”

“She is of age. We have too few women, and she is royalty. A trophy in our Great Hall.” Balin’s voice grew heavy.

His brother had been teacher to the heirs of Durin ever since they could crawl, and they were close to his heart as if they were his flesh.

“Thorin…” Dwalin pressed, a hard urgency now edging his words. “What of Thorin’s mind?”

“He knows what is to be expected of an heir, especially of a princess. He knows that in his _mind_ , but in his heart…” The rest of Balin’s words were silenced by a shake of his greying head. He regarded his younger brother out of astute eyes. “He asked for you to be present at the wedding feast.”

_I will summon you back._ That had beenThorin’s promise to him before Dwalin had left the Great Hall.

Dwalin held his brother’s gaze without flinching. “And are you here to tell me not to, brother?”

Balin simply stared at him for several long moments, before pursing his lips. “ _No_. I am telling you to stay in the kingdom,” he paused, then conceded quietly. “You are needed.”

“So the Court welcomes me?” There was bitterness in his tone, but Dwalin would not hide it.

“The Court forgets easily, and quickly, as with changing tides,” Balin replied somewhat dryly. “And I loathe to say it, but Thorin’s temper is a little less tempestuous when you are around and he concentrates better on – get that insufferable grin off your face, _brother_.”

So he smiled even wider and added a chuckle as Balin huffed something about rogues and urchins.

“The feast is in five days.” Balin finally tossed at him as he gathered his robes and pulled the hood over his head again. “Get yourself there and don’t be late. It’s a two-day march from Ravenhill to the Front Gate, don’t think I don’t know it.”

++++++++++

Dwalin waited two days, settling the guard ranks and ensuring both soldiers and rations were in order, and he departed on the third. There was to be no allowance for any mistake with the safety of the borders; even a royal feast and a prince must wait.

When the Front Gate opened and they entered the halls of the kingdom in the midst of wedding merriment, even Dwalin gaped at the opulence before his eyes. Grand and raucous merrymaking spread far and deep into the vast chambers. It seemed everywhere he turned, flagons of ale frothed in abundance, and the glisten of hearty roast tempted in all corners. Gold and silver, and precious stones, crusted the vaulted ceilings. And in the King’s throne glowed the Arkenstone, beloved star of the Mountain. The Dwarf bride herself was nowhere in sight, so precious her status and presence that she was hidden deep in her chamber even on her wedding night.

Greetings of _Dwalin, our great warrior_ , met him as he bowed his respects to the King, and he laughed uproariously as he accepted ale and food fit for royalty. He had done well in securing Ravenhill, so well that the ministers smiled just a shade too brightly when they rained praises on him. He nodded to them and looked suitably respectful. He had learnt his own lessons in dealing with these ministers.

But his eyes never stopped traversing the vast hall, searching – _searching_. Then Dwalin’s scrutiny found him, a solitary figure standing in the shadow of a pillar.

The whole of Erebor celebrated, and Thorin stood alone. The prince’s head moved, purposefully, turning this way and that as if waiting for a voice. And finding none, his head lowered and he turned to retreat into the path to the inner quarters.

Dwalin drained the last dregs of ale and followed the path his prince had taken. It was unfamiliar to him, for mere soldiers like him were never allowed in the innermost sanctum of the house of Durin. Somehow he knew which way to follow, for he guessed accurately that Thorin, who had little love for the bawdy displays of gluttony and festivities, would make his sanctuary in the farthest room in the quietest corner. The final affirmation of his correct guess came to light as he entered and beheld the interior of Thorin’s chamber. It was spare on furnishings and overflowing with books, maps and beloved weaponry handed down from his forefathers.

Dwalin turned in time for the tip of a blade to press at his throat.

++++++++++

“You dare enter my chambers without my permission,” Thorin said slowly, his gait calculated as he rounded upon Dwalin, his sword never losing its mark even as he moved.

“I think,” Dwalin replied quite cheerfully, not even looking down at the blade, the ale doing its work as he indulged the prince in his game. “I would dare to do more than prance around your chambers before this night is over.”

Thorin glared. “You are presumptuous.” His frown deepened to a black scowl. “You made me _wait_.”

“Aye, a few days. Not many, compared to the months I waited.” Dwalin raised a finger to the blade and pushed it aside quite easily as he closed the distance between them in a single step. He let his fingers rest on the fastenings on Thorin’s outercoat, drawing a tremor from the prince. His whisper deepened. “But I will make it worth your while, my prince.”

Thorin let out a long breath, sheathing the sword in its scabbard, angling his head up and letting his eyes fall shut. A bone-deep weariness seemed to cling to him; his body leaned into Dwalin’s hands.

“You did not partake in the celebration,” Dwalin pointed out, his fingers tugging at the fastenings now. They were tight, tedious knots of cloth and metal, but Dwalin had great patience, far more than many would credit him for. Once the fastenings were free, he pulled the fabric apart, baring a strong, smooth column of throat beneath the thick beard.

“There is no celebration in the trade of my sister.” And there was _such_ heaviness in Thorin’s tone, but it surfaced in his demeanor only in the grim line of his jaw. He had mastered the false façade of the court, and the realisation struck Dwalin with a sort of regret.

Dwalin leaned down, pressing his lips and teeth to the juncture between neck and shoulder. The skin was soft there and Dwalin sucked bruises into it that would linger for days. Thorin’s breathing stuttered out of him, his hands coming to grasp at Dwalin’s fur collar.

Dwalin seized those hands in his own larger ones, and growled into Thorin’s ear, “Undress yourself and get on the bed.”

Thorin went still. There it was – the reflexive defiance in Thorin’s demeanour. At the very root of him, he was all prince, his need to dominate running deeper than he even realised himself. And _there_ – there was the ensuing struggle to relinquish that control. Thorin’s gaze flickered from Dwalin to the bed, and back to the warrior Dwarf again. His intake of breath was long and shuddering as he warred with his own resolve, then at length, something seemed to give in him and the result was startling subservience as Thorin _obeyed_.

Dwalin felt his own expression turn feral as he watched the prince remove his clothing. The outercoat, smallclothes, thin undershirt, and at last, bare skin beneath. He was supple and sinewy with muscles. A youthful slenderness remained at his waist and limbs, but they would thicken over time with age and use. His fingers paused at the breeches, but it was fleeting as Thorin made short work of it, unlacing and pulling them off quickly. The boots followed next with the same efficiency. He was naked now, bared to the cool night air, and Dwalin’s ferocious gaze. Thorin made no overt move to cover himself, but an unconscious twitch of his hands towards his own body almost made Dwalin _do_ something.

But he stayed himself, and instead, motioned for Thorin to get on with it with a jerk of his chin towards the bed. The prince hovered for a heartbeat, than looked away and eased himself onto the white linens and sheets. There was grace in his movements, even naked and uncertain as he was; he moved with efficacy and caution, settling on his back, laying his arms by his sides, stilling his legs as he decided on a comfortable position that was not too _open_. It did not make him look any less vulnerable and Dwalin’s throat went dry as the crackling fire in his guts.

Now Dwalin moved, his gait that of a predator. He stalked the room, stopping at an angle where Thorin could watch him without craning his head. He dealt with his own clothes in the same manner he handled his weapons. Sure, swift and precise. They were tossed in a pile and he turned to face Thorin without abashment of any sort. A pretty flush rose on Thorin’s skin as his gaze roved hungrily over Dwalin.

The warrior Dwarf bit back a grin. He knew well enough what he looked like in Thorin’s eyes. He towered at a great height, his chest broad and deep, cords of solid muscle bulging under his skin. Scars marred his back and runic script marked his chest, and he wore them all with pride. His thighs were robust and the thatch of hair between them dark and thick. Above it, his cock began to swell and pulse, like a beast rearing its head from sleep.

Thorin’s gaze was fixed on Dwalin’s arousal, eyes widening as they drank in the heft and length of it, dark tendons ridging the flesh, and the large crown with the slit already wet. Thorin’s tongue darted out to lick at his lips and Dwalin crushed the urge to shove his cock into the prince’s mouth. That could wait; they had time now. So he shifted onto the bed, pleased at Thorin’s efforts to compose himself as he felt Dwalin’s approach.

He lifted Thorin’s legs so the feet are flat on the sheets and he pushed them apart until he was settled between them. This left the younger Dwarf bared completely to him and no opportunity for escape, not even to avert his eyes.

“Do not look away,” Dwalin told him, resting his hands on Thorin’s feet. He slid his palms over the ankles, feeling the strong bones, and made his way up slowly up the calves. Tension bunched in the muscles under his hands but Dwalin did not stop, letting his touch glide sinuously onto pale thighs.

“You are wound tighter than a key,” Dwalin said in a low voice, his strokes long and soothing as massaged those thighs. Thorin was aroused, had been since the night began in this chamber, and now he was fully hard, his manhood gloriously erect and red against his groin. But Dwalin’s hands kept well away from his shaft, lingering on heaving flanks, the sharp curve of hips, dips at the waist. He lowered his head, pressing wet kisses on the soft, inner thighs, breathing in the thickening scent of Thorin’s arousal.

“Dwalin.” Thorin bit out at last, frustration tight in his voice. “Stop playing with me!”

This made Dwalin stop completely and he pulled away and simply stared down at Thorin.

The shock registered on Thorin’s face; his mouth dropped open, then clamped together in a thin line. “I – ” he grated out. “I did not mean that.”

“Then what _do_ you mean?”

Thorin seemed to turn that over in his mind. “Touch me,” he said finally. He leaned up, took Dwalin’s hands, and in a move that made Dwalin smile inwardly, placed them on his chest and not where his arousal was at its peak. “ _Touch me_.”

“Very good,” Dwalin used the same deep strokes over Thorin’s upper torso, running his palms soothingly over planes of smooth muscle, the mat of dark hair at the chest, fingers catching now and then over dusky nipples.

So in this manner, almost intoxicated on Dwalin’s touch, and so, _so_ slowly, the anxiety ebbed from Thorin’s body and he sank deep in the sheets like an exhausted child.

“You worry for your sister and brother,” Dwalin remarked quietly. At the first moment Thorin tensed, he rubbed his thumbs over Thorin’s nipples, teasing the nubs rigid, drawing soft exhalations from Thorin. His body was almost startlingly responsive, as if starved of touch for too long.

“I fear for them. I have not seen Frerin in a year. And Dis,” Thorin said and the pain in his tone was unmistakable. “The life of a bird in a gilded cage.”

Dwalin pondered that for a moment. He traced the line of Thorin’s sternum with a firm palm, over and over as if he could caress the very beat of Thorin’s breath itself. “That is not all you fear, Thorin.”

Under the fractured moonlight in the chamber, Thorin’s eyes were like dark forest pools. They glimmered with something bitter, and sorrowful, and guilty. “No, it isn’t – it isn’t – ” His voice rose to a furious hiss. “I’m _relieved_ I’m not her. My sister shuttered away deep in the mountain for a price not even worth a fraction of the Arkenstone. That _will_ not be my fate, Dwalin!”

In a swift move, Dwalin lowered himself until they were to chest, and their faces a bare inch apart. “No it will not,” he said intently, making sure Thorin heard him. “Your name will spread far and wide in stories and songs of your great deeds in battle. Dwarves will bow before you. Men and Elves will speak your name with respect. Ripe young maids will clamber over themselves to warm your bed.”

Thorin huffed; Dwalin felt it as a soft rumble between their chests. “That sounds more like _your_ bed.”

Dwalin growled a laugh. “Yet tonight, I’m in yours.”

“I thought you would not come.” That was murmured in a carefully guarded tone and Thorin’s gaze was fixed on the ceiling.

“Well, I rather like the idea of a prince pining away for me.”

A smile threatened to surface on Thorin’s lips and he turned it into a sneer instead. “So are you planning to speak with me all night, or should I get dressed now?”

Dwalin’s face felt as wolfish as it probably looked. He thrust suddenly and hard against Thorin, and their hard cocks rubbed together in sweet friction. “I plan to ravage you until sunrise, so that for days after, all you will feel is _me_.”

Dwalin crushed any retort from that arrogant mouth with a bruising kiss. It was deeper than the hurried kisses they had shared before, tempered with a desperate hunger that had only escalated over the years. _Never enough_. It would never be enough. The realisation made Dwalin ache and he took it out on the mouth beneath his own, sweeping his tongue over every fold and biting down on all these _noises_ that Thorin made.

They broke apart and Dwalin retrieved a vial of oil was from his pile of clothes. Thorin took in his movements with an unblinking, almost mesmerised gaze, the flush spreading from his cheeks to all over his torso as he watched Dwalin coat his fingers liberally with the oil. Oh, he knew what was coming, and there was such _want_ in his eyes.

“I have not – ” Thorin blurted abruptly, and he seemed to look away.

Dwalin understood then, the nature of the trysts Thorin had had. None had been allowed to claim him, to own him, to possess him in the most intimate way. It touched Dwalin in a strange way, and he realised he had been far closer to the truth than Thorin would admit with his brief, throwaway remark about the young prince preserving himself for him. He also knew then he would wrought the keenest pleasure in the princeling, when he fulfilled what they had both been waiting for.

Laying his hands on Thorin’s thighs, he spread them further apart to uncover that furl of muscle between his buttocks. It pleased him, as he rubbed one calloused thumb over that tantalising hole, to see it flutter beneath his touch, as if begging for more. Lowering his head, he moved between the prince’s thighs, and dragged his tongue over that little ring.

“Dwalin,” Thorin gasped at once, raising himself to his elbows and staring down at him with the most beguiling churn of arousal and shame and hunger in his eyes. “That – you should not – ” He looked like he didn’t know _where_ to look, or what to say, and strangely, that drove Dwalin’s desire all the keener.

“Hush, and lie back,” Dwalin told him, pushing his thighs up to tilt him upwards even more. “It will be good.”

Thorin’s gaze remained on him for a moment longer, before crimson stole into his cheeks, and he leaned back again. And no sooner had he done that, his back was arching, head whipping to one side as he writhed beneath Dwalin’s mouth. Relentlessly, Dwalin wetted the prince’s hole with his tongue and lips, circling that pulsing muscle until it was tender. He squeezed the tip of his tongue within, breaching that tight, forbidden entrance, then carefully worked it open, letting more and more of his tongue plunge inside and spread the princeling wide. Thorin was near biting his lip raw, but there was no stopping the whimpers from escaping his mouth.

If Dwalin could grin now, he would. But he was using all his skill and control, unraveling his sweet princeling. His tongue undulated deep into Thorin, exploring the most intimate well of him, then pulling out to press fleshy nips on that glistening little hole, encouraging it to bare itself for him.

“ _Dwalin_ …” Thorin murmured incoherently. There was a sob in his breath, and his hips lifted, shamelessly displaying that heavy, swollen shaft at their crown. He was ready for more.

So Dwalin slid one finger inside the prince’s passage, no stopping, all the way until it was knuckle deep. A long, low moan dragged out from Thorin, the sound of it sparking the fire in Dwalin’s loins, and he had to calm himself, to wait – _wait_ because Thorin was not yet ready for his cock.

When it was two fingers, then three squeezing deep into that _tight_ channel, Thorin’s eyes widened and his throat convulsed. “Dwalin – ” He did not finish his words, but Dwalin supposed it was an entreaty. There would be no such respite for the prince for the preparation is essential. Dwalin twisted his fingers with some cruelty and much more urgent need, curling them over and over until Thorin’s hips were bucking up against him, and his passage was slick, almost slippery, and so _hot_.

Hands grappled at Dwalin’s shoulders. “Now, _now_ – Dwalin! I want you – your – ” Thorin broke off with a strangled cry as Dwalin’s fingers stilled and pulled out.

“ _Say it_.”

“Your…” Thorin’s lips moved soundlessly for a moment before his voice obeyed. “Your cock. Inside me.” His eyes grew fever-bright, startling open, and it seemed Dwalin could read every shade in them – fear, desire, pure longing. “ _Claim me_.”

Dwalin heard a sound from his own chest – a snarl, something almost bestial – and he surged forward, the head of his cock nudging at Thorin’s entrance, pushing, then breaching it as Thorin sweat and groaned with the penetration. Then he was _inside_ , the tight oil-slicked heat sucking him in with agonising drag. If there was pain, blistering and white-hot from being split open, then Thorin embraced it, taking it further into himself, his gaze not veering away from Dwalin’s even once. His mouth hung open with great, tearing breaths, hands renting the sheets around them.

He began slowly, every ounce of willpower holding back each thrust, forcing himself not to simply plow into the quivering body beneath his. One of Thorin’s hands succumbed and moved towards his cock, but Dwalin seized both his wrists, pulled them over his head and trapped them there against the sheets. This shift in their hips, Thorin nearly bent double, meant Dwalin could now thrust harder, _deeper_.

Thorin’s eyes flared, and he _mewled_ in shocked pleasure before he could catch himself. Ah, he had found that sensitive place that would shred the princeling’s control to tatters. Dwalin’s hips flexed with unerring ferocity and precision now, his cock pounding again and again into that spot deep within Thorin that would shatter him, make him come undone. Sweat and fluid glistened on their skin as they rutted, dry sobs and moans spilling out of Thorin like a chant.

A mindless, feral need drove him. Dwalin’s hands pinned down Thorin’s wrists, not allowing him to touch, and watched him writhe helplessly as his cock lay trapped between their bellies. Dwalin’s thrusts grew erratic as release coiled tighter and tighter within him. And perhaps it was hearing Thorin’s deep rumble finally break down in choked, keening cries that did him in.

A last guttural roar and Dwalin plunged into Thorin several more times, his seed spurting deep into the prince. He thrust still, languidly, let the clench and unclench of Thorin’s passage drain the last of his climax, before pulling out, spent. Beneath him, Thorin looked a _sight_ , hair and beard fanning wildly around his face, thighs splayed open like a debauched wench, cock so hard and flushed and dripping. Thorin’s eyes were dark and glazed with unfulfilled need, his gasps veering dangerously close to sobs.

Dwalin kissed him quiet, shifted down the length of his body, and slid the prince’s cock into his mouth. He sucked at the thick heated flesh without mercy, letting it drag back and forth into his lips, laying a great forearm over Thorin’s hips to still him when he would jerk up uncontrollably. Not long now. Thorin’s hands, he did not command, and allowed them to grab desperately at his hair. He pulled off then and simply fisted the shaft, stroking it hard and fast.

“Come on…” Dwalin growled in encouragement. “Let me have it.” His hand sped up as Thorin thrust helplessly into his fist. Then a hoarse, wordless cry and Thorin spilled himself all over his belly and onto Dwalin’s fingers. His thighs shook with the aftermath of his release, hips twitching when Dwalin took his sated flesh into his mouth again to be suckled clean. He felt Thorin’s fingers press into his skull, and moans reverberating through Thorin’s body, until Dwalin spared him, letting the softened cock slip from his lips.

Thorin seemed content to play his role as a prince now, boneless and exhausted for long moments after, unwilling to move even as Dwalin wiped the rest of him with the sheets.

“The guest room is around the left corner,” came the almost petulant growl.

Dwalin paused in his movements, eyebrows rising. Thorin had turned onto his side to stare out of the enormous single window that was carved out of solid mountain rock, and opened out into night air. The moonlight now illuminated his profile, turning him into a strange being of silver and shadow.

“You can go,” Thorin finished. His voice was still rough from their mating, but the tone was guarded.

_If you want_ , Dwalin heard the rest of the unuttered sentence, and wanted to guffaw, but wisely decided against it. Thorin might be a young prince, but he was still _one_ and Dwalin valued his neck well enough not to risk it. So, in a very unceremonious manner, he settled heavily and ungracefully onto the bed, jostling Thorin as he did so, and dragging the fur pelts back over them both.

“Your bed’s too small,” Dwalin remarked. “Rid yourself of it and get a bigger one.”

There was a sharp, still moment as Thorin froze, as if he had not expected this and he did not know how to respond. “I – ” A clearing of throat, but his voice seemed lighter as he spoke again. “ – did not think I would be sharing it with a filthy soldier.”

Oh, hear that. _Filthy soldier_. Teach a prince a few lessons in bed and Dwalin’s honour would be insulted. Dwalin reached down under the pelts, found the tempting swell of buttocks and squeezed it roughly to get a string of sputtering curses out of Thorin. He threw arm and leg over Thorin and tightened his hold, drawing their bodies together, and nuzzled into Thorin’s neck until his grumbling subsided.

“ _Your_ filthy soldier, if I recall correctly,” Dwalin reminded him.

“You’re too warm.” A last complaint.

“Guest room’s too far,” Dwalin retorted.

That was that and no other word was exchanged, then they slept.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *scratches head sheepishly* Yeah uh...I know this took a damn long time. Sorry guys!


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